About Me

Perth, WA, Australia
Hi friends. To those I have met in person and the many I haven't - welcome to our nest. Thanks so much for stopping by. I am a mama of six baby birds and wife to one papa bird. Our nest is an intricately woven home, crafted over time, through the highs and lows of life, and many in-betweens. We are soon to leave our Australian nest to re-locate to our second home, the UK. This is our story, of our new life in a new country, the trials and tribulations, bidding goodbye to precious friends and embracing new. I know at times, our wings will be flapping so hard to keep us moving forward that we will tire, however, a little perseverence will bring effortless gliding amongst a soft breeze, and even stronger wings for the journey ahead. Welcome to our flight......

Saturday, 26 March 2011

Making Friends


Our number four child, Miss four, is in the friend-making-business, and apparently there is set protocol for pre-school aged children to follow.

We were having a discussion as to what sort of birthday party Miss four would like to have for the big impending day (I must add she has not had a proper party before -dinner at Hungry Jack's doesn't count, nor does cupcakes shared with my girl-friends). When you turn five, you can't be fooled any longer and a girl needs a 'proper party' with candles and 'chocolate inside' (not quite sure what the 'chocolate inside' means, as opposed to 'chocolate outside', but this has been clearly emphasized by Miss four). It could have something to do with the fact that she is tired of applying greasy suncream lotion to her face whenever she steps out the front door, and on her special day, she would like to glow from her own specialness instead of oily cream.

So ... we want candles and chocolate and no suncream. What about the friends? She thought long and hard about that one and informed me she would let me know when she had some time to think. Wise choice. You can't rush into these commitments lightly.

Later on, the OBH heard her softly talking in the darkness of her room.
'Friend X and I, Friend x and I'.
'Is X your new friend', he asked?
'No', she replied.
'A pretend friend perhaps?'
'No' she answered.
'Does Friend X play with you at school?'
'No - but she does play with friend Y and Z, and, she is in the room next door to me'.
Right, so, the low-down is that friend X is in the pre-school class next door to Miss four. Friend X is a ring-in to Miss four's group, in-so-much that she sits with the group during play time but hasn't yet acquainted herself properly to our precious one. Friend X is not a proper friend yet. She is still an X.

Phew .. it is exhausting just writing about it. But it got me to thinking. As adults when does a friend become a friend? Is there a certain waiting period, when you morph from a stranger, to an acquaintance, or a friend-of-a-friend, to your own friend. And then when does one turn from a friend to a close friend to the coveted and highest-esteemed best friend. Let's face it, no matter what your age, every girl wants a special friend, and believe me folks, it starts in pre-school and should come with its own rule book, training DVD and bonus motivational speaker to boot. Just so everyone is on the same page and each party know what is required.

Well, I am happy to say that I have had many experiences of friends X, Y and Z, and a priviledged few make it to the inner-sanctum spot of 'very special besties'. I will just have to remember to include the candles and the 'chocolate inside', minus the oily suncream.

Making Friends

Our number four child is in the friend making business, and apparently there is set protocol to follow for pre school aged children.

After we put her to bed tonight we heard her softly chatting away to herself - 'Molly and I, Molly and I'. We asked her whether Molly was her friend to which she shook her head no.

Friday, 18 March 2011

Oh..No... Baby!


Our little girl, twin number two, has been trying to talk this week.

Her main stream of baby communication has been in the form of 'no'! As in, 'no, no, no, no, no'. Sometimes she accompanies the 'no' with a shake of her head.

When twin two is cruising the house, the 'no' word is prevalent in certain areas. Often when the dishwasher is open, her little hands are absolutely itching to get in there amongst the dirty dishes and tea-stained cups. The hand is sneakily outstretched, eyes look furtively around, body inches closer. Sometimes she crouches down, has a quick sweep of the inside of the machine, then the head starts to shake and we can hear her scolding herself. 'No, no, no!'

I can't for the life of me work out the attraction to a dirty dishwasher and why her soft, smooth, white little hands would want to get all mucky with scraps. But she does, every day. There is a permanent little spot allocated just for her.

Other times it is when she passes the coffee table and there is an array of delicious temptations for chubby little baby hands in the form of magazines, pens, diaries and empty coffee cups. Why would she want to play with blocks when you can suck on a pen and waddle about?

And then there are the couches, the nice, soft, leather couches that to a baby would seem like a giant marshmallow - soft and gooey in the centre with a bit of a spring.
She scrambles up and positions her little bot-bot right in the corner, sitting prettily. However, the moment we turn our heads, she is on her feet and throwing her body in multiple directions to achieve adrenalin charged, dizzying heights. Until, invariably she falls off and cracks her noggin and then screaming ensues.

In a way it is sad that her first lines of communication are 'no'.

Guess what Mummy says all day long?

Saturday, 12 March 2011

Skip, Skip, Skip to my Lou, my Darling


Our four year old daughter, and also fourth in line child, is learning to skip. She is also learning to charge, hop and gallop, as you do when you are four, going on five, but it was the skipping that made me smile.

She gave us an impromptu demo in the kitchen, her little legs slapping the floor, trying to co-ordinate all elements with the grace of a baby bull.

Little girls skip exceptionally well. It is in the DNA and generally goes hand in hand with learning how to swing themselves (which they inevitably can never remember to do when in the company of adults), control their bladders at night, wash their hands properly and try different foods (I am only talking roasted tomatoes here, not oysters killpatrick). I have never known my boys to skip - not once. I am positive. Not even a little secret skip from the toilet to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

So here's the thing .... when is skipping ok to learn, master and perform and when is it not? When does it cease being cute and girlie and turn into an anti-social, delayed behavior disorder? If teenagers skipped, they would be laughed at, ridiculed and teased. If adults skipped, they would be sent straight into an institution, don't pass 'Go', don't collect $200.

Now here is my secret ... I skipped the other day, just to see if I could still do it. The thighs wobbled a bit and my bottom took a while to bounce back to normal position but all in all, it was a good skip. A few furtive glances were taken and to my relief nobody was looking on in horror. I probably won't try it again as to be honest, the old/young pelvic floor took a bit of a beating with a single skip.

I think I will sit on the sidelines and watch my four year old skip her little heart out, twirl, dance, flick her hair about and generally embrace and enjoy her girlie loveliness. And I will look on and nurse my sagging pelvic floor.

Sunday, 6 March 2011

There'll be days like this ..


I'm far too emotional.
I'm way too fat.
I'm always this and seldom that.
But what do I care.
I don't give a fluff.
I'm totally fantastic and
believe none of that stuff!


I love this verse from the inspirational affirmations company, 'Twigseeds'. It brings a smile to my face and even a little chuckle if I am feeling really happy. Most often than not though, when I reach for my inspirational sayings, I am feeling blue, tired and/or weepy - usually all three.

This weekend has been one of those 'Twigseed' weekends, where everything feels off-kilter, and I would swear that I am lugging around a ten tonne millstone hanging from my neck. Every movement takes an enormous amount of effort as I struggle and strain to 'do life'.

In reality, the babies are choked with colds and oozing green snot. The teenager has lost her voice (small mercies really) and is pre-menstrual (quick - duck). I have a raging sinus infection and feel as though my facial bones are drumming to some sort of tribal bongo beat. My beloved Mum has been ill for nearly two months, with little reprieve, and two of my best friends have wound up in the ER with severe health problems.

When I am down and feeling sick on top of it, and attempting to carry all of the other stuff in life, all I want to do is shed my skin and slip into another - effortlessly, superbly, sublime. Like a 'Mission Impossible' movie, where Tom Cruise peels his pretend face off to reveal the actual character underneath, I want to go purchase the pretend mask for a bit and escape for a break. I have been scanning the Big-W catalogues, however, to my disappointment, such masks are not for sale, and a cheap, plastic Spiderman just won't do.

Being a mum, wife, daughter and friend is not an easy calling. In fact, I can't remember the exact moment I signed on for this task. It must be accumulative - the children certainly were. You see the soft, milk-sweet babies turn into stroppy toddlers who fling their arms and legs about and demand opinions of their own, which in turn morph into tweenies with attitudes and teenagers who are mini-adults with every correct and perfect answer to everything under the sun. Before you know it, your house is full to the brim with mass - aka people - individual, complex, precious and heart-breakingly scary - if you are the parent.

The wife, daughter, friend, bit is slightly easier but unfortunately gets tacked on at the end and they have to make do with left-overs, which lets face it, are often dry, taste slightly of tupperware and very mediocre.

So - as much as I would like to stop the treadmill for a bit - hit pause, shed my skin, down a few shooters and kick back (which for the record, I have never done - the shooters that is!), I really can't. I have been given the gift of motherhood six times over and blessed with children who adore me, despite my obvious flaws which are gapingly visual every single day. They forgive me, they forget my grumpiness, my outbursts, my tired emotions, and they tell me they love me still and that I am the best Mum ever - as far as they are concerned.

There is a dim light that I try to flame into fire on these 'shedding skin' days, whereby I hope that these attributes the children so graciously share with me, were learnt somewhere along the line through their parenting. All I can say is - thank goodness for their Father, because if they just relied on their Mother, then we would really be in trouble.

However, as the 'Twigseeds' verse says, 'I don't give a fluff, I am totally fantastic and believe none of that stuff!'